


Blood Runs Through

by dt01



Series: Blood Runs Through [1]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Abuse, Dark, Eventual Fluff, Hopeful Ending, Incest, M/M, Martha Jones is the real saint here lets be honest, Mental Health Issues, Rough Sex, Self-Harm, The Doctor as a metaphor for Jesus who???, also this escalates quickly, definitely
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-04 08:49:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15837873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dt01/pseuds/dt01
Summary: In the TARDIS's attempts to keep the Doctor and the Master bound as humans, she makes a crucial mistake with the Chameleon Arch. Attempting to decipher the nature of their feelings for each other, she creates a backstory that undoubtedly keeps pulling them together, but is also the cause of what keeps them apart.Cut to three years after "TLotTL", the fobwatched version of the Doctor, John Smith, has run off to be a do-gooder. And the Master's, Harry Saxon, has been institutionalized. When John comes home to care for his brother, Harry pushes every limit he can think of in order to win and keep his brother's affections.(I've decided to keep posting chapters of this until it's finished, because it motivates me to complete it, but it's unbeta'd and needs lots of edits so eventually it might be taken down briefly so I can complete those edits. Until that point, feel free to enjoy the rough draft and stay tuned for the tune up. ;) )





	1. Pick-Up

**Author's Note:**

> A few things:  
> 1.These version of the John and Harry retain a lot of their Time Lord personalities. Maybe because they're so wound up in each other that who they really are can't help but seep out. There are some noticeable differences though.  
> 2.They're obviously not really brothers so there's technically no actual incest here.  
> 3.This fic plays with extremely dark concepts but everything is consensual, and though I tagged it with abuse, I'm a bit hesitant to do so. There's no wife beating or child beating themes in this, just a very unhealthy relationship between the two, and the human Master is still batshit.  
> 4\. I'm incapable of leaving them as twisted up as they start out so it will probably eventually devolve into some fluff, hopefully still in character, but I never make promises.  
> 5\. I also use a shameless amount of fandom cliche's in this just because it's fun.

 

“Right then,” John says. “Here we are.”

He swings open the door to his flat and ushers Harry inside. Harry steps forward, poking his head inside, and pausing in the doorway. It’s a small flat, simple, with very few personal items placed anywhere and appearing to be functioning on the bare minimum.

Harry lifts an eyebrow, noticing that the exception to this seems to be a ludicrously large bed pressed up against a long set of glass windows in the far left corner. The middle of the room houses a black leather sofa with matching leather chairs, and a medium sized coffee table. The kitchen is placed directly across from the bed in the far right corner and holds a microwave, a stove, and a refrigerator. The microwave’s door is slightly ajar, with the cook time still counting down, and a couple of rickety looking barstools are pulled up against the speckled gray linoleum countertops. The years old fridge, looking a tad familiar, gives a great rattle and Harry jumps

“Hang on,” he says. “Is that Mum and Dad’s fridge?” He takes another step into the room peering over at it.

“Yeah, still worked didn’t it? Thought I should keep it.” John takes a step forward as well, brushing his up against Harry’s back. Harry swallows and lets the heat of it seep into him. It’s been years since he’s been so close to someone else, much less someone he’s so familiar with. He’s finding, though he’ll never admit it aloud, that he’s been experiencing a bit of touch starvation. The whopper of a hug John had laid on him the minute they’d stepped out of the hospital had left him feeling flustered, a little desperate and most definitely dazed, like the wind had been knocked out of him. It figures in his state, that John, the source of what the shrinks considered to be some of his more darker obsessions, would be the one to wrap him up in touch and warmth, grounding him to the here and now. He thinks it unlikely it could have gone any other way though, not the least because John’s the only family he has left to be released into the care of.

Harry finishes cataloguing the little flat, and swallows down an overwhelming surge of sadness at the state of his brother’s home, which doesn’t appear to be much of a home at all. A feeling of irritation creeps up beside the sadness and he gives a great shake of his body in an attempt to ward the emotions off.  He spins around on his heel, a cold look sliding into place, and stands there, face inches away from John’s. He takes in a deep breath, ready to do it. Ready to cause a scene and start the game he does so love to play with the man in front of him, but John’s looking down at him with a nervous edge to his smile and Harry hasn’t seen him in so long and he’d...God...he’d _missed_ him.

Harry takes a deep breath, turns back around, and steps all the way into the room as  lets John close it the door with a gentle click behind them.

“Small isn’t it?” He asks.

John opens his mouth to answer, but is cut off as Harry flings his bag onto the sofa and rips off his hoodie. He lobs the ratty thing over one of the chairs. Then he tackles pulling off his trainers, which he throws haphazardly in the direction of the door. (Though somehow they both end up landing feet apart on opposite sides of the room.) Harry makes a go for his socks, reaching down to pull them off, but is stopped when John places a hand on his shoulder.

“Please, please, don’t toss your dirty socks about the place. Everything else I can-” He looks around, eyes widening with a brief flare of hopeless panic before putting his palms out as if to brace himself against thin air. “I can handle.”

“Right.” Harry shrugs the hand away and falls down onto his stomach across the sofa. He wraps his arms around his bag, tugging it close to use as a makeshift pillow. The material scratches at the bare skin of his cheek where he presses it against the fabric. “There’s only one room.” He says, popping his head back up to give his brother a taunting look. “One bed. Wherever shall I sleep?”

John is in the process of divesting himself of his own shoes as he rolls his eyes. “You seem to be quite comfortable where you’ve dropped by the looks of it.” To Harry’s amusement John flings his trainers behind the chair with the same amount of haphazard grace as Harry had. “I’m only one person, I’ve never needed much. Plus, I’m not usually-”  John swallows, glancing away. “You know.”

“Here?” Harry rolls his eyes and lifts his feet up, ready to “toss his socks about” just to spite his brother.

“Right.”

John winces as Harry closes his eyes and hurls his socks, “Wherever they shall land!” With a look of utter joy.

“You’re disgusting.” John mutters as he follows their flight across the room with his eyes, then his actual feet, and bends to pick them up. He walks back over to Harry and beckons with his hand. “Up,” He says. “Let’s have your bag. I’ll put your things in the wash with some of my own.” He gives Harry an assessing look. “We should go shopping. Get you some new clothes.” His tone is mild but pointed.

“I don’t _need_ new clothes,” Harry replies as he lifts his head and lets John pull his bag out from under him. He flips over and puts his hands behind his head, leaning back against the  arm. “I’m fine with what I have.”

“You wear the same outfit every day Harry, you have for years. It’s…” John see-saws his open palm and purses his lips. “Well, frankly it doesn’t do much for your image.”

“As a crazy person you mean?” Harry asks matter of factly. John just shrugs and starts digging through the bag. “You’re wrong though. I’ve got four outfits exactly. And you’re one to talk. You’ve got what? Two sets of trainers, a single t-shirt, and half a pair of trousers?”

“It’s not half a pai- look they’re just a little worn out. They’re practical, not to mention extremely comfortable! I need clothes that travel well. And at least I’m not running about in a-a-a a hoodlum hoodie.”

“Hoodlum?” Harry mocks, as he lifts his head to give his brother a incredulous look. “Hoodlum hoodie? What are you eighty?”

“Half a pair of trousers?” John retorts.

“Still,” Harry says as he lays back again. “Hoodlum?”

John rolls his eyes and turns on his heels, walking over to the little alcove by the kitchen with his washing machines. As he opens the door and busies himself stuffing things inside, Harry pulls himself off the couch and wanders over towards the bed. There’s a nightstand on the right side, with a desk lamp and what looks to be some sort of journal sitting neatly placed on top. The bed is made, and Harry notices a couple of empty backpacks sitting next to the wardrobe pushed against the wall near the foot of the bed. He kicks at one of the bags, then flings open the wardrobe doors, leaning forwards to look inside. He finds nothing interesting, a couple of dorky looking suits, some plain t-shirts, and a maroon Henley with long sleeves. He looks down to see John’s high-tops sitting flopped over on the bottom floorboard.

When he turns back to glance at John, the man has stripped down to his pants and is forcefully shoving his half-pair of trousers into the machine. He seems to be muttering filthy curses in the process.

“And they think I’m the mad one.” He slams the doors of the wardrobe closed and John yelps, jumping about a foot in the air. Harry raises his eyebrows, grinning openly, as John turns to shoot him a dark glare.

“Sorry,” Harry lies.

John turns away again, opting to ignore him. Harry deflates, face going from gleeful to disheartened in the span of zero point five seconds. He moves to the bed and flops down on top of it, rolling around and rubbing up against the sheets. “How is the old job anyway?” He asks, voice muffled in the duvet. “Found any borders yet?”

John finally gets the machine to start and walks over to one of the chair. He collapses into it and lets out a sigh so deep and so relieved, Harry is almost certain he must have been holding it in all day long.

“Found any what?” John asks as he finally turns to give Harry most of his full attention. “And could you stop that please?”

“You’re without them aren’t you?” Harry asks, voice by the blankets.

“Oh...oh no, Harry. No. Don’t-don’t do that. Don’t.”

“What? It’s funny!” Harry crows, popping up off the bed and reaching out to grab the journal on the nightstand. He runs his fingers over the leather bound spine. “This is nice,” he says, making to flip through it.

“No, no, don’t do that either, that’s-” The book is abruptly snatched from his hands and taken into protective custody clutched against John’s bare chest. “Work is fine. You’re _not_ funny. And this is mine _,_ understood?”

“I suppose you didn’t come home to get me on time, ‘cause what?” Harry asks, feigning lightness. There’s the barest edge of bitter accusation seeping through. “You were busy helping some...hmmm…” He taps his finger against his chin in an exaggerated display of thought. “Malaria stricken kiddies was it?”

He steps forwards into John’s space, puts his fingers over the journal where it peeks through the tight hold of John’s arms. He feels John’s bare skin brush against his knuckles and smiles, looking up at his brother with mocking eyes. “Were they malnourished too? Was it sad? Oh, did you cry Doctor Smith? You _are_ good at that.”

John pushes Harry’s hand away, and opens the nightstand drawer. He places the journal inside with careful hands. “That’s...more or less what happened, I suppose.” He says, refusing to rise to the bait, letting Harry’s words roll off of him.

Harry gives John a disparaging smile, before he glances down to take note of where John is hiding what is evidently not just a journal, but in fact, John’s diary. For future reference, of course. The glint of light against metal catches his eye, and he leans in a little closer. A loud breath falls from his lips and he takes a stuttering step backwards, physically startled to see his old fob watch nestled up next to John’s at the front of the drawer.

“And no, I didn’t cry.” John says, sliding the drawer closed.

“What?” Harry puts a hand on his brother’s arm to stop him. He waves a dismissive hand, “Oh, yeah, whatever. You kept these?“ He asks pointing, then abruptly reaching inside, almost of his own volition. He picks up the one that belongs to him. “After everything? You still have them?”

He studies it, thinks it as beautiful as ever, and runs his thumb over the complicated etchings in the metal. They’ve always seemed to mesmerize him, like some sort of song calling out, reaching for him. He turns it over and over in his palm as he stares down at it listening closely as the drumming in his head- the drumming, the constant drumming- begins to grow in volume.

He supposes that that must mean something terribly dramatic about his life, and his illness, but he’s exhausted of psychoanalysis after his stay in the hospital, and instead throws the watch back in the drawer, slamming it closed with a burst of frustration. “Pity they’re both broken, I’m sure they’d be worth money.”  

“I’d never sell them.” John looks at him with those pathetically deep brown eyes of his. His gaze is gentle, but searching. Like he’s trying to see inside of Harry, and Harry isn’t sure that he can’t. “You know I’d never do that.”

Harry clears his throat and shoves past his brother, “ ‘Course you wouldn't. They were Dad’s and you’re an idiot.” He finds himself beginning to pace the flat, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I would though. You know me. Family disappointment. What do I care? As long as I can get something out of it for myself right? Good old Harry.”

John closes the drawer carefully and takes a couple of steps towards his brother, “I don’t think you would though.” Harry is trembling just slightly and John keeps his voice as gentle as possible. Like he’s trying to tame a wild animal. And when it comes down to it, Harry supposes it’s not all that much different, but thought is enraging and the irritation that’s been threatening to bubble over since he first lay eyes on his brother today reaches a roiling boil.

“I think you love them as much as I do. I think you’d keep them.”  John is still talking, but Harry’s barely registering the words anymore. He watches as his brother raises an arm, reaching out for him, careful, but certain. “I can give you yours if you like?”

“No!” Harry shouts, holding up his hands. “Shut up! Just- don’t touch me! I’m not some sort of animal you can just-I dunno- _tame_. God, what is wrong with you?”

John winces back, like he’s just been slapped. Harry smiles, clenching his fists and twisting his neck a bit, relishing the feeling of release that rushes through him.

“Is that what you really think you’re dealing with here?” Harry sneers. His voice has gone cold and calculatingly cruel. “A fucking-I don’t know...ill-behaved dog? No, you’re dealing with something much, much, more dangerous than you’re ready for, and don’t think I’m going to help you with it. I won’t make this easy on you _brother._ ”

Harry watches his spite slice through his brother like a knife.  He watches the guilt begin to cloud up in John’s soft brown eyes. The stupid git, always was too empathetic for his own good. Makes himself much to perfect a target.

“I’m sorry,” John starts to say. “Really, I am. I’m so-”

“And I just don’t care! I don’t give one flying fuck. Not about you, or your apologies. Not about watches, not about family, not about whatever _this_ is.” He gestures back and forth between them. “It’s what they said right?” John is shaking his head but Harry is nodding, he’s laughing. “I can’t feel a damn thing.”

“You’re wrong,” John sounds absolutely certain, but he steps back like he’s not. “You can. You’re feeling right now aren’t you?”

Harry feels as though he’s being yanked forwards, following his brother, replacing the space that’s come between the two of them, and preventing John’s retreat. It’s as if an invisible string is pulling him in, dragging him towards the man he’s verbally abusing, the man he’s just screamed at to stay away. It’s infuriating, and he has to force every muscle in his body to turn away, to walk towards the sofe. Before he even realizes what he’s kicked the thing so hard he’s torn a hole in the fabric with the force of it..

“I’m not,” Harry spits. “I’m not and I can’t, and fuck you!”

“No but you can. And you really are. Aren’t you?” This time when John steps forward Harry doesn’t lash out. So John does it again, still reaching, always reaching for him. “Aren’t you Harry?”

Harry says nothing, does nothing. Let’s John make his approach. Relief rushes through the both of them as Harry lets John put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Just as swiftly as the furious fit had risen in Harry, it leaves. He collapses in dramatic fashion over the back of the ruined sofa, falling forwards and over, then wriggling himself into a sitting position. He puts his elbows on his knees and lets his head fall into his hands. “No, John.” He says. “The answer is no….I don’t want that stupid watch. Just- Just keep it. I don’t care.”

“Fine.” John’s voice is so soft. Too soft. It scrapes against the raw pain seeping into Harry’s consciousness. John sits down next to him and presses worried fingers against his brother’s cheek, sliding his palm around to cup over the line of Harry’s jaw. “Fine.” He says again. “I’ll keep it for you.”

Harry lets out a shuddering breath and puts his own hand over his brother’s, clutching at it, pressing it close and urgent against his skin. He squeezes John’s hand so tight that he sees his brother wincing out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t let go.

“It’s alright Harry, I swear.” John whispers. “It’s going to be alright. Everything will, I promise.”

“Stop it,” Harry snaps. “Stop making these great big promises that you can never keep,” He turns just a little to glare, eyes boring into John with the weight of things unspoken. “It just makes everything worse.”

John opens his mouth, obviously wanting to protest, but something in Harry’s gaze must stop him because his jaw clicks shut, and he gives a very sharp nod. Harry’s sees John remember his own state of undress with a glance down at his bare chest, a shiver stealing through him, whether it’s from a chill or the strange position they’ve found themselves in, Harry doesn’t know.

He thinks about getting up, going to the restroom and washing his face, but finds he’d rather like to stay here, like this, until John decides he’s had enough and pulls away from him...as he inevitably and always will. It’s a dramatic thought but it rings true, down to the very depth and core of him. As though it’s ringing true of other lifetimes spent with this man, his brother, the person he so desperately loves and loathes with every molecule and cell of his make-up. A tear leaks from the corner of his eye and John wipes it away with a gentle caress of  his thumb.

Harry closes his eyes, leaning back and taking his brother’s hand with him, there are no sounds but their breathing, and the ridiculous refrigerator rumbling away in the kitchen. They sit, and Harry let’s everything just sort of fall away and be what it is until the moment breaks.

It doesn't. Not for a long time, not until they’re both hungry and Harry desperately needs a piss. They look at each other. John smiles. Harry grins. Things lighten, and they find themselves back on equal footing. But Harry feels it, like he expected to feel it, like he always feels it, like shards of glass cutting through him, when John is the first to move away.


	2. If You Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a domestic morning turns to shit when John takes his eyes off Harry for one damn second, and puts them on a pretty girl.

Harry wakes the next morning to the sound of a giant clang coming from the kitchen. Easily startled, his eyes fly open as he jerks his head up, shoving himself up on his arms. His eyes dart around the flat for the source of the noise, and come to rest on a bashful looking John, sitting on the countertop with a spoon of cereal halfway to his mouth. His legs are dangling over the floor where a steel mug seems to have fallen and spilled tea all over the tile.

“Sorry,” John says around a mouthful of milk and Weetabix. It’s disgusting. He’s bare chested and wearing his dorky specs, there’s a book laying open against the counter on his right so Harry assumes he’d been reading at some point. His overgrown mop of hair is sticking up every which way, and he honestly looks a bit of tramp.

Harry’s gives a low growl in response and flops back onto the couch as he turns his back on his brother. He grabs the spare pillow John had given him the night before, and plants it firmly over his ears. He’s awake now though, and the pillow does little to muffle the sounds of John jumping down from the counter and rattling about in the kitchen as he mops up his mess. He squeezes his eyes shut as tight as he can, smothering his annoyance as best as possible, praying sleep will be courteous enough to overtake him once more.

After a few minutes Harry gives it up as a hopeless cause and turns back around. He puts the pillow back under his head and gives it a good punch to fluff it up a bit.  As he lays his head back down, he stares grumpily at his brother, who has once again planted himself atop the counter to finish his cereal. They stare at each other intensely for a few moments, eyes meeting in a sort of unspoken greeting, the kind that only family, or anyone as close as, can ever really understand. John stares him down with a cheery good morning, while Harry’s responds by trying to give the V sign with his eyes.

“Very rude,” John says on another mouthful, but he’s still staring at Harry. He swallows his food and quirks his lips.

“What?” Harry finally snaps.

John shrugs and puts another spoonful of cereal in his mouth, “Dunno, you look...you’re hair-” He gestures at Harry and grins.

“ _My_ hair, have you looked in a mirror today? Good going, great impression of an especially shaggy dog.”

“Oi!” John says. He lets go of his spoon, letting it clink against the bowl as he runs his fingers self-consciously through his hair. “I’m getting it cut,” He pouts. “And I was going to say you look adorable, but since you’ve insulted me I take it back.

“Adorable? I do _not_ look adorable, I look manly and pissed off.” He bares his teeth at John. “Adorable, what kind of complement is that? No, no, that there is the real insult.”

John snorts, and then chokes, milk going up his nose and spraying from his mouth. Harry laughs and this time physicalizes the V sign. “Serves you right, wanker.”

John recovers himself, coughing into his fist. “Want breakfast?” He aks hoarsely.

“Nooo,” Harry says drawing out the word. “I want to go back to sleep. What time is it anyway?”

“Quarter to eight.”

“God! You monster!” Harry flips onto his back dramatically, pressing his hands against his eyes.

“You could get in my bed if you like.”

Harry jerks his hands away and turns to stare at John. “What?” He asks, swallowing, and his voice comes out a little higher pitched than he’d intended. He covers it with a snort. “Why would I do that, I could hear you just as well.”

John finishes his last bite of cereal, gives the spoon an indecent lick, and puts the bowl to his lips to drain the last the milk. He swipes the milk mustache from his mouth with the back of his hand, and draws in a gulp of air. “Yeah,” he replies, jumping off the counter and moving to wash out his bowl. “But it’ll be more comfortable. Probably still warm actually. I’m about to shower, so you won’t hear me stomping about in here for the next little bit.”

Harry gives a little nod, pretending that he’s considering the offer and not gagging to fling himself beneath John’s covers. To burrow down in them and bury his head in the warmth of the duvet and pillows. Pretending he doesn’t at all want to inhale John’s scent like the desperate little freak he is. He clenches his jaw and gets up, walking a bit stiffly over to the bed. He lays down in it as calmly as possible, pulling the covers up slowly. He pointedly does not turn his head into the pillow to breathe in deep and long, not yet, not until John’s in the toilet.

But John doesn’t walk towards the loo, he smiles at Harry and approaches the bed, standing over it to peer down at him. “Shall I tuck you in?” He smirks and Harry feels his face flush so hot that there’s no way John’s missed it.

“Don’t condescend me,” he snaps, standing back up abruptly.

“No, no you don’t.”  John puts his hand on Harry’s chest and gives a gentle push, keeping his hand on Harry’s skin as he guides him back down to sitting. The touch of John’s palm sends an even deeper flush over his chest.

“I was taking the piss, calm down.”

“Were you?” Harry’s voice is low and he looks up at his brother with searching eyes.

“Yeah!” John laughs. “Course I was, what else would I be doing?”

Harry shoves the hand off with a disgusted little growl. He turns, dropping onto the bed and rolling away. He squeezes his eyes shut, in fear and annoyance, when he feels the bed dip beneath another weight.

“Hey,” John murmurs, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder and tugging a little. “What just happened there? Tell me.” John begins to knead at the tense muscles of Harry’s shoulders and neck. “We’ll never get anywhere unless you can...you know...well-”

Harry flips back onto his left side, facing John once more. He sounds exasperated and bitter and just a little bit desperate. “Well what John? What?”

“You have to talk to me Harry!” John replies, a little louder than he’d intended.

Harry gazes at his brother for a long time. He puts his own hand up, lets it hover over John’s head, his face, sliding down so that it’s just above John’s hip bone. “Fine, then.” He looks John up, then down, and keeps his gaze dropped as he lowers his hand, placing it, so as not to startle John, oh so very carefully on the jut where boxers give way to bare skin. Harry has to fight to keep from sucking in a fierce breath. He covers it with a sound a bit softer, says. “If that’s how it is,” He looks back up. “Then you have to return the favor.”

John turns onto his back and flings his arm over his eyes. A searing rejection, and Harry pulls his hand back like he’s been burned, shoves it under his own body so that he’s not tempted to try again.

“Alright, alright. I know.” John says, turning his head to meet Harry’s gaze. His face is serious. “You’re right. Seriously. Completely right.”

Harry nods, realizing that he’s suddenly sort of drifting away from the conversation. Like he’s not all there, a little to the side of his own body. He can hear John and sort of register what he’s saying but it’s background noise.

He watches, as if in slow motion, as John rolls full towards him again, crossing his arms and curling his head and legs in towards Harry just a bit. His brother gives a great big grin, one of those grins that lights up the entire room. The kind of grin that could power cities, and...and stars in the universe. Harry watches all this, blurred at the edges, yearning to be experiencing the power of that grin in full force. But he can’t because he’s gone all wonky. He supposes it’s better that way in the end.

“We’ve always been rubbish at communicating haven’t we?” John winks, the sparkle in his deep brown eyes depressingly attractive. “ ‘S what most brothers do I suppose.”

Harry winces, swallows, and wipes a hand over his face. He gives a shaky nod. “ S’pose.”

John must hear the tremor in his voice because the light in his face vanishes, completely evaporates, replaced with a look of dark concern. “Harry?”

Harry looks at the ceiling.

“Harry what’s wrong. Are you hearing them again? Are they...do you...what can I do? How can I help?”

“You can’t John.” Harry says through gritted teeth. “You can’t _help_.”

He doesn’t tell John that it’s not the drums, not quite, though they do seem to be growing in intensity the more he spins out. He doesn’t tell John that it’s never “again” with the drums, but “always.” He doesn’t tell John he’s done all this to himself and he feels so _stupid_.

He sees John moving, reaching for his face, but Harry shakes his head, “No, please. Don’t. Just-just give me a minute yeah?”

John hesitates, hand wavering and with a look in his eye that says he knows better than Harry.  Knows that the closer he is the more he’s “helping,” the more he’s making Harry “better.”

Harry’s not sure if that’s true, he thinks it’s not, not exactly, but he does know he yearns for it. Even when he can’t bear it.

“Breathe Harry, it’s been a minute.”

Harry does, he heaves in the breath he’d smothered those minutes earlier and releases it on a high startled sound.

“Did you forget? Did you just forget to breathe? Harry that’s not healthy, is this something else-? Is it new? No one said- I haven’t noticed before. I feel like I should be writing all of this down. Just so I can know-just in case- I should monitor the-”

“I’m not a science project! Or an invalid! I don’t need to be fixed or-or fucking ‘monitored.’ I’m a grown man and I’m just- I’m trying my best alright?”

John nods, nods like he understands completely. It’s a pity Harry knows better. John could never help trying to fix him, at every turn, at every break-down, and every chaotic episode. Even when he rages right back, he always want to help. Harry’s heart give a pathetic flip. He grabs John’s hand in his own.

“Right then,” He says, still staring at the ceiling. “This is fine now.”

“Good,” a little smile rises on John’s face. “That’s good.”

They lie there together, John taking deep slow breaths, and Harry is unable to keep from falling into the same rhythm. It’s surprisingly comforting, breathing together like this.

They’re both startled from the peace of the moment when John’s mobile rings on the nightstand. Harry desperately wants him to ignore it, wants him to stay for just one moment longer. He squeezes John’s hand tighter, it’s a sign, a request, and John shouldn’t be so stupid not to understand.

“One sec,” John pulls away. He sits up and turns his back, taking his mobile off the charger and pressing the talk button, holding it to his ear. “John Smith speaking.”

Harry can’t see the smile, but he hears the purr when John replies to the mystery person’s greeting. “Hello there Sofie Williams.”

Harry sticks his tongue out and makes a “yuck”  face. His fists clench and he shoves them under the sheets.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” John asks, laying back down. One arm shoved under his armpit as he stares at the ceiling, an infatuated look plastered across his face. Harry’s entire body starts to tense up again, whatever part of him was still floating about in thin air has snapped back into place. The fury simmering beneath his skin clears his head beautifully. He could almost be thankful for Miss Sofie’s call, except that he’s not, not at all. Not even a little bit.

“Wouldn’t miss it.” John says, voice firmly reassuring. “Oh now c’mon. I resent that accusation.”

There’s a long pause in John’s side of the conversation so Harry can only assume the cunt is babbling away about something. He rolls his eyes.

Then John says. “My brother’s home.”

He blurts it out like a confession, and a shameful one at that.

“So barring any-” John glances over at Harry who’s staring spitefully at him, trembling, body tensed to the point of looking like he might spontaneously combust. John stares at him alarmed “- _thing_ he might need from me.”

 _Nice cover you prick,_ Harry thinks. _Not good enough._

John nods. “Right.” He flaps his hand about in protest. “No! No,” he says hastily. “I want to see you, I do. I swear, it’s just I haven’t seen him in ages either and-well you know.”

Harry leans forwards, pressing his mouth right up to John’s unoccupied ear, gives the shell of it an indecent lick, and spits. “Have you told the whole world I’m a fucking lunatic?”

John grimaces and wiggles away, wiping at his ear and pushing Harry’s head back.

“Ehm,” John scrubs a hand through his hair. “I’m-I’m not so sure that’s the best idea.” A pause, then- “But...he’s...here? Are you sure? Are you really really sure?”

Harry’s face breaks out into an disturbingly manic grin as he realizes what she’s asking of John. He lets the niggling pull to raise utter hell (specifically for John) take him over completely, and the fucking joy he feels as all of his pain and distress just leaves him, fading into nothing, is utterly indescribable.

He grabs the phone from John’s unsuspecting fingers and flings himself over his brother’s body, and off the bed. John shouts in protest and leaps after him. Harry, however, has a head start and the entire thing quickly devolves into ludicrousness, because then they’re chasing each other in circles around the tiny flat, Harry slipping from John’s reach at every turn.

“Hello Sofie, darling, Harry here. I’d absolutely love to meet you. Wouldn’t I John?” He shouts over his shoulder. “Please, do come over. It’ll be fantastic!”

“No!” John objects noisily. Already losing his breath as he races about in circles. “No it absolutely will not! Sofie don’t listen to him, seriously. Really, don’t.”

But Sofie can’t hear him, she’s to busy gushing in her, annoyingly squeaky little voice, so sweetly desperate to agree and gain Harry’s approval. She’s falling for the trick and he lets out a delighted laugh.

“Oh John,” Harry says, mock pouting at his brother as he halts in the chase. John bangs right into him but Harry stops him with a hand to his chest. “Don’t be so dramatic, it can’t go wrong. We’ll see you at seven Sofie!” And Harry hangs up with a deliciously satisfying press of a button. He’s closed the deal and prevented John from running any more interference.

Harry laughs madly as John growls and dives for him, tackling him to the ground. They hit the floor with a thump and roll sideways.

“You absolute arse!” John shouts. “That-that was- it was-” He seems to lose his words  mid-sentence and resorts back to unintelligible growling. Harry lets him gain the upper hand, and John’s pelvis rubs over Harry’s as he situates himself in a straddle over Harry’s waist. Harry’s eyes flutter closed. “Ah.” He gasps.

“Oh, am I hurting you?” John snarls. “Not fucking sorry!”

Harry opens his eyes and smirks, “Not hurting me.” He says. His voice is low, raspy. Harry lifts his hips and gives a little wiggle.

John’s eyes widen, saucer-like and so gorgeously shocked. “Stop that.” He says breathily. It’s more of a whimper really. Harry’s sure the man’s quite winded. He winks.

“Stop what? This?” He gives another twist of his hips.

“No, really, stop.” John says. It’s all panic and fear, all confusion and pain. Harry groans at the sight. “Yeah,” he whispers.

Then he watches, with a fair amount of disappointment, as John goes from panicked to furious. Anger is a secondary emotion, Harry knows, always triggered by some other emotion that one’s mind can’t quite handle, like fear. He’d learned this in the hospital of course, it had been drilled into him. (identify your emotions Harry, identify your responses, identify your triggers, you can intercept them before they happen blah blah blah) And yes, John is still lovely when he’s angry of course, but it’s not quite as fun when he knows what his brother’s about to say.

It’s been said many times, always in a situation when Harry brings attention to just what’s really going on between them.

“Why do you have to ruin everything?” John hisses. “Why can’t you just...just be fucking normal? Not such a-a-a freak! Who-who-you’re just-” John gives up, and moves off of Harry.

John’s not stupid. He knows Harry’s infatuated with him, could go so far at to use the term in love, though that’s a bit too sappy for their situation. But it’s never put him off, not really. Oh, they play a merry game of push and pull, and John whines and lectures like the sanctimonious bastard he’ll always be, but for every time John seems to have abandoned him, for every time he says- this is it, he can’t do this with Harry anymore, it’s unhealthy, it’s unnatural it’s dangerous- for every time, he always comes back. Always. And when he does, he’s always pushing himself into Harry’s space, shoving, touching, hugging, holding-all of it. So close. John’s not stupid, he feeds into Harry’s obsession because he shares it, but he thinks himself a fucking saint and can’t stand it when Harry rubs it in his face that he’s very clearly not.

“If you’re so upset, then call her back and cancel.” Harry says quietly as he peels himself off the floor. His eyes go hard, and he stares intently at his brother as he walks back to the bed, crawling under the covers. He pulls the duvet up around his ears, the messy tangle of his hair barely poking out, and he hopes it doesn’t look adorable. Not that that would actually do anything to assuage his brother’s anger at this point, which is good because Harry doesn’t want to.

John’s breathing heavily, “I can’t cancel.” He says. “You’ve got her hopes up that I’ll see her, and I clearly can’t leave you here alone.” He turns and walks rigidly towards the bathroom.

“What ‘cause I’m psychotic?” Harry calls after him. The words are a bit muffled but they come out alright.

“Yes Harry!” John spins back. “Yes. Exactly that! ”

Harry pulls the duvet down just a bit, smiles wide and unrepentant as he says with a voice like ice. “I do hate you you know?”

It’s the absolute truth and John knows it. Harry sees the shine in John’s eyes, tears welling at the edges, and he tries to blink them back. He swipes at his mouth, chokes on a sob, and slams the bathroom door, leaving Harry alone.

There’s guilt, there’s always guilt. It tries to sweep through him, but he smooths it over with a wave of acceptance. It has to be this way. It must. If it was any other way he knows he’d drown. He turns his head into the pillows and inhales John’s scent into his lungs like he’s been longing to do ever since he’d been invited to lay in them.


	3. Blondie (A.K.A. Shop Girl)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the same thing happens as in the last chapter, but now it's dinner time, blondie is here, and it's so much worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter is pretty dark, and contains self-harm so be warned.)

They do go shopping that day. John gets his haircut, stating he wants to look “presentable” for Sofie, and not at all like a homeless person, thank you very much. Harry just rolls his eyes and allows John to drag him through a couple of department stores to pick out some new sets of trousers, and a couple of button down shirts. He even lets John get him fitted for a suit, God knows why John thinks he’ll ever need it. He finds he likes it though, going so far as to pick out two different suit jackets, one with purple lining and the other with a vivid red lining. It makes him look a bit flash, and though Harry presents himself a bit like an emo trash can on most occasions, always finding he has more important things to worry about, (like juggling the symptoms of his own psychosis) he’s still a grown-man and occasionally likes to look it.

Once they’re back at flat Harry offers to cook for the evening. Hoping win back a bit of favor from his brother in the short term. He’s already planned to turn it all to shit later, but it’s less fun if John’s already upset. Much more exciting to crush the hopeful light in John’s eyes that things can go well.

John peers at him skeptically, “Are you sure you know how?”

This gets John a whack across the back of the head when Harry replies, “Yes, I know how you twat. But if you’re concerned, I’ll make pasta. It’s hard to fuck up pasta yeah?”

John gives a couple tilts of his head, considering, finally he throws up his hands and leaves Harry to it. Well...mostly. Really, what he does is pop his arse back on the counter and watch as Harry putters about, occasionally asking for the locations of different cooking utensils.

“Is there are reason you must sit on surfaces clearly not meant for sitting? You’ve got two perfectly good barstools at your disposal there.” Harry points with a spoon.

“Dunno, always a bit more exciting this way.”  John flashes a dorky smile and a shrug.

“Right, well, that’s definitely weird, but whatever gets you off.” Harry smirks into the red-sauce and John doesn’t reply.

He knows John’s sitting with him for myriad of different reasons, to make sure he doesn’t harm himself with any of the knives, or burn himself on purpose over the stove. Behavior John’s seen in the past. Harry also has an inkling that John’s fairly concerned he might poison the food, which is rather hilarious if he does says so himself.

He snickers and slings a tea towel over his shoulder, glancing over at John who’s still smiling. Under the circumstances, it all feels very normal and Harry allows himself to ignore everything else, and bask in it properly. John appears to do the same. He hops from the counter once the sauce has just begun to warm on the stove, not so hot as to burn, and sticks two very eager fingers into the pot. He then proceeds to pull them out and suck them straight into his mouth.

“Oh God,”  He moans. And Harry has the urge to do the same. He tries desperately to avert his gaze, for his own sake and less for John’s, fails and ends up standing agape as he watches John lick his long gorgeous fingers clean.  “Harry this is wonderful! I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”

“Yes, well,” he swallows as his voice breaks just a little. “I-ah...I told you.”

“You most certainly did.”    

“That is rather disgusting though, just in case you weren’t aware.”

“What?” John looks at him slyly. “This?” And he does it again.

Harry stumbles back against the counter and grips the edge, knuckles turning white as he attempts to ground himself. He curses John internally, loathing the man for playing the flirt but never ever following through, and always making him feel guilty when Harry wants him to.

“Stop spreading your germs.” Is all Harry can think of to say.

John shrugs, “Why? Sofie won’t mind. It’s not like we haven’t “shared germs” before. And you certainly don’t.” The last bit is followed by a pointed look in Harry’s direction.

Harry grimaces, “Was that a dig?”

John gives another shrug and reaches for the tea towel on Harry’s shoulder, he wipes the rest of the saliva and red sauce on the fabric and then replaces it.

“You can go off now, you know?” Harry says as turns back to stir the pasta sauce. Plotting even fiercer payback than he’d originally planned. “I’m almost finished, and as you can see I haven’t poisoned anything yet. She’ll be here within the hour. Go get dressed.”

“Hmmm,” John nods. “There’s still time yet for poison. But alright, might as well.”

And with that John walks to grab the outfit he’d laid out for tonight off of the bed, and heads for the washroom. Forty-five minutes later he comes back out. He’s dressed in one of those dorky suits, blue pinstripe, and appears to be wearing the maroon henley _underneath_ , which is completely ludicrous, as are his choice of trainers. An eye popping pair of bright red Converse. His hair has been gelled and spiked, and no longer looks like the mane of a shaggy dog. Though Harry thinks it now resembles more of a chaotically fluffed cockatoo crest. The ensemble is ridiculous, but Harry knows John’s probably thinking he looks “hip.” Can almost see the word “hip” cross his brother’s mind and he rolls his eyes.

If he’s being honest, it’s all an annoyingly delicious look for him, and he find that there’s something terribly and beautifully comforting about it. Whatever that means, because he’s fairly certain he’s never seen his brother looking like anything but a rangy hippie. Barring that one time when he wore a tux at their aunt’s wedding. A disaster that wedding was, the ex-girlfriend appeared out of nowhere to object to the union, and at the end of it all, their decided to leave the poor groom at the altar, and run off with her instead.

“Found a sense of style I  see,” Harry comments a little slyly, not really meaning it but John’s gullible and he beams.

“Really? Aww, that’s nice of you. I quite like it. I should do it more often.”

“The hair is still doing good impressions of animals though.”

“What’s it this time?” John’s fiddling with the suit buttons. “Couldn’t be anything a bit more respectable than shaggy dog could it?”

“Mmm, dunno. How do you feel about cockatoos?”

“Right, no, that’s probably worse. Should I change it?” He bolts back into the bathroom.  Harry can see him through the open door staring at himself in the mirror, poking at the gelled up spikes.

“No,” Harry says loudly. “It’s annoyingly attractive. She’ll love it.”

John pokes his head out and winks at him, “Thanks.”

“Whatever,” Harry grumbles as he flips the stove off and pulls a loaf of seeded italian bread out of the oven.

“Where’d you get that?” John crosses back to the kitchen looking baffled.

“Popped down to the corner market while you were playing dress up. Didn’t take but ten minutes.”

“You left the house?”

“Yeah,” Harry replies squinting his eyes at John. “What of it? I’m not a prisoner am I?”

“No, it’s just…” John touches the dial on the stove. “You left the house with the stove on.”

“Oh for-” Harry throws his hands up. “You were here! I didn’t just leave it completely unattended. The dial was on low, it was simmering. People do it all the time stop being over  dramatic.”

John opens his mouth to start a good hard lecture, but is abruptly cut off by a knock at the door.

“Thank God,” Harry mutters.

John’s face flips from stern to giddy in a flash. It’s disgusting.

“That’s her!” he says brightly.

He bounces over to the door and flings it open. There stands Sofie, all blonde hair and brown eyes. She’s wearing a lovely summer dress, despite the chill of fall outside. She’s gorgeous really, and Harry immediately has to turn his back on her. Can’t bear to look at her, at  them. He knows John’s wrapping her in one of his trademark massive hugs, whole body twined around hers, when she giggles and he gushes a great hello.

Harry’d been on the receiving end of that hug yesterday at pick-up. Though their own reunion had been much more solemn, and with a slight bit more desperate clutching instead of joyful enveloping.

Harry plasters on a smile best he can and turns back around. John is holding Sofie’s hand and guiding her towards the kitchen. Harry winces, isn’t quite ready, and spins away once more. He pauses and takes one last deep breath. Trying one last time for a winning smile, he turns to engage. John is giving him a funny look.

But Harry just waves a dismissive hand. “Sorry, fine. Just thought I might sneeze.”

Sofie gives him a sweet little smile, but John knows better and his eyes are boring into Harry’s skull.

 _Behave_ , they say. _Please please behave._

It’s a fruitless request of course, so Harry decides to just get the show on the road. He’s bubbling with excitement to see the night end either in Sofie stomping off, or making a terrified escape.

“Right,” says Harry clapping his hands together. “John doesn’t have a dining room table so I thought we’d have a sort of picnic around the coffee table. I already set out a little blanket.”

And sure enough, Sofie and John both turn to see that the coffee table in the middle of the room has been set with table cloth, dishes and utensils.

“Just need a bit of help carrying the food over.”

John jumps to help, picking up the pot of pasta, sauce already poured over, as Harry grabs the bread and butter. He points at a bottle of wine opened on the counter and Sofie rushes to grab it.

“You cooked Harry?” Sofie asks, following them both and waiting for John to take his seat. Once he has she sits down next to him, setting down the wine, and leaning into John’s shoulder.

“Yep,” It comes out tense and sharp.

“But that’s lovely, thank you.”

“Yep.” The same.

They begin passing around the food, dishing it out onto their plates, and pouring the wine into their glasses. Once everyone is settled Harry digs in immediately, trying to miss the way John and Sofie giggle and whisper in a quiet huddle across the table. Finally, after a particularly loud peal of girlish laughter, Harry looks up from his plate and swipes his mouth with the corner of his shirt just to be rude. John makes a face, but Sofie doesn’t seem to notice, too busy staring longingly at the sharp line of John’s jaw. Harry knows the feeling.

“What are you two on about then?” He asks around a mouthful of pasta.

“Harry,” John murmurs warningly.

“Right, sorry.” He swallows and pretends he really is. Loves to make it confusing for John. “Manners aren’t quite what they used to be. I’m sure John’s told you.”

“Oh it’s fine,” Sofie says. Reaching out a hand and placing it on the table, just a few inches away from Harry’s. He supposes it’s intended to be a gesture of connection...maybe comfort. He can’t really be sure. “It must have been terribly difficult for you.”

He shrugs, “I guess. Three years in a place like that does set you back after rejoining civilized company.” He pauses, swallows his mouthful of bread and looks intensely at John. “Would have been a bit easier if John had come home to see me more often.” Then he breaks his gaze and smiles fakely at Sofie. “I’m sure you can relate.”

It’s not a total lie, nor is it the complete truth. It’s mostly just a sopped up version of his real feelings. It wouldn’t have been easier for him, but it would have satisfied his cravings and curbed a bit of his loneliness. He really had missed John like a hole in his heart. It was part of the therapy discussions. All of it. Too much of it.

“Oh yes, well, we’ve only been seeing each other a couple of months. He wrote to me while he was in Africa, it wasn’t the end of the world, but I did miss him of course. Not like you  though, I’m sure it was terrible. John,” She says turning to look at the other man. “It really is rather irresponsible of you to not come see him. Didn’t you miss him?”

John coughs on a noodle and covers his mouth with his napkin. “It’s not my fault, I have a job Sofie. Both of you,” he looks back and forth between them. “I wrote to Harry too. I was doing the best-”

“No you didn’t,” says Harry, voice quiet.

“What? Yes...yes I did.” John looks taken aback, like maybe he actually did and isn’t just trying to cover for himself with his girlfriend in the room.

“No, you didn’t. I never got a single letter from you.”

“But that’s impossible I-” A look of horrible comprehension crosses his face.

“Do you think they got lost in the mail,” Sofie pipes in. “It is rather a long way.”

“No dear Sofie,” Harry points to John’s face. “That’s the look of a man who’s just realized he’s done something terrible. You never sent them did you?”

John reaches over, grabs Harry hand in a fierce grip. “I meant to, I swear I meant to I did. I don’t know why-”

Harry pulls his hand away and shakes it out, “It doesn’t matter John I’m fine. We’re here now aren’t we?”

“That’s right!” Sofie’s happy-go-lucky attitude has worn out it’s welcome in Harry’s opinion. He glances down at his watch. “It’s about that time!” He grins up at the both of them, and gives John a big wink. “Let’s hear a bit more about you Sofie. John’s told me so little. What do you do?”

Sofie blinks, her smile beginning to fade around the edges. “Do?”

“For a living,” Harry clarifies, grabbing for his glass to sip at his wine.

“Oh,” she seems relieved. Which is stupid of her of course. “I work in a shop.”

Harry’s laugh is loud and incredulous, “A shop?” He asks. “Really, a shop?”

“Well, yes. It’s rather a nice one though. I really enjoy it. I get along with most everyone  there and that’s really kind of hard to find in a job you know?”

“Oh I know,” Harry nods. “I do. I can’t ever get along with anyone. Drives our John bonkers. Doesn’t it John?”

“Harry,” the voice is hard and cold. A very firm warning. Harry snorts.

“Oooh, lovely dom voice John, do you play it up in bed? You’ll have to try it out on Sofie at some point. She seems the type to like being handled.” It’s horrible. It’s so gorgeously horrible. His head is buzzing pleasantly, and Sofie let’s out a trembling little gasp.

“That’s-” She stutters. “I’m-”

“What? Sorry, too much? I’ll tone it down. Like I said earlier, manners, all out of practice. A tough go for someone like me.” He slaps his palms on the table. “Where were we? Ah yes, a shop. What else is there to know about you Sofie? You know all about me, so we can check off tolerant on your list of pros. And pretty of course. But what makes you special. Why’s John fallen for someone dull as you?”

“Harry, that’s enough!” John’s eyes are fire. Rage and fire.

“Oh John pish, you knew this was coming. The fact that you did, and _still_ didn’t decide to cancel. Even if it would break poor Sofie’s heart. Oooh, it really says something about you. Was it exciting? Thinking about what I might get up to this time?”

“No I-I-I-” He’s doing the cute little rage stutter again.

“Yes,” Harry swings his head to the side. “Go on. You what?”

“I-I-” He splutters.

Harry breathes in, grinning when he realizes that John really can’t speak. He’s truly tongue tied. Sofie reaches up to put a hand on his cheek but Harry jumps to snatch it before it gets there.

“Are you brave Sofie, is that what makes you special? Oh, but life in a shop, that doesn’t seem very brave to me. Have you been wishing for someone handsome and adventurous to come sweep you off your feet? Someone like John perhaps? He’s certainly all that, and then some. Pity he comes with a side of me.”

Sofie tries to pull her hand away but Harry’s grip is firm, “You really do have those looks going for you. Blonde hair, dear God, he _loves_ blondes. Kind of James Bond fetishist he is. You know, save the world, get the girl kinda thing.”

John finally regains the ability to speak and comes to Sophie's rescue, prying Harry’s fingers off of her wrist.

“Don’t touch her!” He spits. “That’s not alright. Please don’t make me- just- please. Please Harry.”

“Shut up,” Harry growls. “Look at you, you’re pathetic. Playing at being Doctor, playing at the cliche life, playing at being normal. Playing at forgetting _me_ , me of all people! Overcompensating, by remembering to send letters to the plain little shop girl back home. I know you John Smith. I know what’s inside of you. You never sent those letters to me because you were scared? Weren’t you?” He gets up from the table and walks around it to kneel next to his brother. John moves back just a little, but not enough to protect himself or Sofie if Harry decided to do something drastic. Harry cups a hand over John’s neck, leans in. “What did they say John? What did your letters say? Tell me. Please.”

John closes his eyes and shakes his head. Harry leans forward the last few inches and kisses John’s forehead. “It’s alright.” He says. “Don’t worry. I know. You don’t have to say, I know.” He jerks a thumb at Sofie, “But this- this John. This is nothing. It’s just an empty stand in for what you really need, for what you really want.”

Harry puts his hand over John's throat, squeezes just a little, and slides it down over his chest, down all the way, unmistakably aimed for John’s crotch. Right there, right in front of Sofie the shop-girl, all wide eyes and innocence. God, they’re a pitiful pair, they are. His fingers brush the button of John’s jeans.

“Right.” The touch must cause John to snap right out of it, because he’s pulling Sofie up off the floor. “We need to leave. You and I, we need to get out of here, right now. C’mon.” He’s frantic and scared. Dragging her to the door. “Get your coat, quick.”

Harry realizes that Sofie is crying, she’s so bloody freaked she’s weeping. He throws his head back and laughs madly, points at her and puts a hand over his chest like he just can’t believe how funny it is. But the second John opens the door, the second John’s puts one foot across the threshold, he goes deadly serious.

“Wait,” he shouts. It’s really John’s mistake to pause. Really it is. Because he’s got John’s attention again, and this time he intends to keep it. He picks up the serrated bread knife off the little cutting board they’d left it on and raises it to his hand. He gives a last winning smile and a wink at blondie, and slices open his own hand.

Sofie’s gives a startled scream, but John lets her go. He abandons her in the doorway and rushes to Harry’s side.

“Get out!” He shouts, not even turning to look. “I’m sorry, but please. For your own safety.”  

There’s blood pouring out onto the leftover food, the bread is stained with it, but it’s not even noticeable over the pasta. Harry’s briefly tempted to lean down and start eating it just to top off the scene, but he thinks he’s probably gone too far as it is.

John’s clutches his hand and places napkin after napkin over the deep cut, trying to stop the bleeding. Harry watches Sofie flee, and it’s just as wonderful as he’d expected. He looks up at the ceiling, closes his eyes and inhales a deep satisfying breath. Things had gone really, really, well. He couldn’t have asked for a better turn out if he’d tried. As John continues frantically tending to his wound, Harry reaches up to run his injury free hand through the soft gelled spikes of John’s hair. He basks in the glow of all the chaos, and the painful display of loyalty John’s just shown him.

“I love you,” He whispers. And when John looks up at him, he’s crying, just like Sofie had, but the agony behind his eyes is deeper, it’s darker, and it means _more_. Harry moves to wipe the tears away with his thumb. “It’s alright.” He says. “I promise. Everything’s going to be alright.”


	4. How To Drown Yourself In Guilt: A Book By John Smith, Forward Written By Harold Saxon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to understand, Harry tries to help him. They end up banging in desperation, and of course it's a DISASTER. (Also the chapter in which John continues to prove that he's the real prick here. And where Harry's just a fucked up lunatic doing his right best.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love these titles and summaries, they're going off the rails for a fic this dark. I give myself a solid A+.

John’s put Harry on the countertop this time, and he’s bent over Harry’s hand, finishing off the last of the stitches. 

“You know?” Harry says, looking around and kicking his feet against the bottom cabinets of the counter. “A small dinner table wouldn’t go amiss in here.”

John doesn’t look up. “I don’t have room.” He says, voice aching with exhaustion.

“Yeah you do, we’d have to move some shit about, but there’s plenty of room. I could-”

John gives a sharp tug with the needle and pulls the string through sharply. Harry winces. 

“You could what?” John asks. “Are you planning a life here now? Really?”

“Well yeah,” Harry tilts his head at John. “Where else would I plan a life? You don’t  expect me to get a place of my own do you? ‘Cause that’s a ridiculous notion. I suppose we could upgrade though, it doesn’t have to be here.”

John full on drops his head, presses it up against Harry’s knee. “Harry,” his voice sounds pained.

Harry’s eyes widen, “What? What’s wrong?” He puts his hand in John’s hair, tugs at it a bit. “Look at me.” But John stays put, rocks his forehead back and forth over Harry’s kneecap. “John tell me. What’s-what are you on about?”

John does look at him then, fingers still gentle with Harry’s injured hand, holding the needle and string carefully. “I-I’m not...Harry do you realize what happened tonight? Really do you? Because if you don’t I want you to think back, and...and try for some...recognition. Please.”

Harry pauses, he blinks, and it clicks into place. What John’s saying, why John’s still crying. Why he’s surprised to hear Harry carry on about life like it’s normal...because it’s not. In John’s eyes it’s not normal at all, and Harry is in deep trouble. It’s really too bad that he never  seems to puzzle out these pesky consequences before he does things like harass John’s girlfriend and slice his hand open in front of the both of them. But really? John must be overreacting, he must be. It can’t possibly have been that bad? Can it?

Harry jerks both of his hands back like he’s been stung, it hurts and he hopes he hasn’t torn any of the fresh stitches, but he moves his whole body as far away from John as possible,  kneeing his brother in the chest in the process. John grimaces and rubs a hand over it. “You’re not sending me back there. No. No. No way!”

“Well what am I supposed to do?” John reaches for Harry’s hand back. “Doesn’t it hurt?” He asks, starting a different conversation within a much bigger conversation. Harry assumes it’s strategic. “Did it hurt?”

“Yeah, ‘course it hurt. Still hurts. I’m not numb.” Harry shrugs. “Well, not to physical pain.”

“Then why? I don’t understand.” John’s looking, he’s searching Harry’s face, he wants to know. He  _ wants _ to understand.

“Pain’s not much to me. I kinda like it.” Harry curls his shoulders in a bit. They’re  treading on dangerous territory here, and Harry wonders if John’s trying to trap him into saying something that’ll give him a free pass to dump him back on the hospital’s doorstep. After a brief moment of consideration, he decides that honesty is the only way to win John back over at this point and decides to spill the truth. “It’s a lot of things alright...it’s...it’s like a release. Definitely a distraction. And the pain’s just it John, I  _ feel _ it. Every time, I feel it. It’s not let me down yet.”

John considers, another tear slips from his eyes, but he gives a small nod. “Is that why you didn’t want me to numb it before hand? I must say,” He looks back down. “You seem to be handling the whole thing disconcertingly well.”

Harry shrugs, “I guess. Probably should have though, you’re still carrying on with it and it’s been a good ten minutes. That’s a bit much even for me.”

“Yes, sorry. Just-” He starts back on Harry’s hand. “Just let me finish up. Only take a tic.”

John sows in the last stitch, ties the string and cuts it. He reaches for a cotton ball and tips some rubbing alcohol onto it, gives the cut one last swipe, then proceeds to start bandaging it. 

“Please, don’t send me back John,” Harry whispers.

John sighs but doesn’t avert his attentions. “I don’t know what else to do. I really don’t. You’ve been home for just over twenty four hours and here we are. That was really bad Harry. Really, really, bad. It was-it was more than just an episode, it was an explosion.” He pauses, then says very seriously. “Harry, I thought you might hurt her.”

Harry doesn’t say he thought he might too, he doesn’t say he wouldn’t have minded if he had. He doesn’t say anything at all.

“Do you ever feel guilty?” John asks. “Really? Honestly? Is remorse something you even understand. I’m not guilt tripping you I just, I really need to know. I think it’ll help if I know.”

John finishes with the bandage but doesn’t let go of Harry’s hand. “Sometimes,” Harry murmurs. “I don’t know. It’s fickle, it’s...sometimes it washes over me in great waves and just, it bowls me over John. I can’t bear it. I absolutely can’t. It’s like...it’s such an overwhelming feeling that my brain just flips a switch, turns it off completely. I never really know what I might feel though, plenty of times it’s nothing, which is different kind of genuine torture.” He rolls his eyes. “God! Emotions though, very unreliable. Not a fan if I’m being honest.”

John gives a sardonic giggle, “That makes two of us.”

“But you’ll keep me?” Harry presses. “Say you’ll keep me, John. Say it.”

John runs the tips of his fingers against Harry’s wrist and Harry shudders, grips John’s shoulder with his uninjured hand. “I don’t know Harry. I’ll have to go back to work at some point, and you’re right. I can’t leave you alone. I suppose I could have Martha check in on you but- I just don’t know.”

“Take me with you,” Harry’s foot has wrapped itself around John’s calf. He tugs John closer. 

John snorts, “No. No absolutely not. You’re mental. You couldn’t handle it.”

“No, but I could. Bet you I could.”

“Prove it,” John whispers, he steps forward. “Here. Now. You need to prove it.” There’s no space at all between them now. Harry’s surprised John hasn’t turned tail and fled the scene, like he should have done with Sofie.

“Alright, I will. I’ll be good. Honestly this time.” He puts his hand over his heart. “Sane Harry speaking, not mad Harry. I swear.” 

But then he’s reaching up, sliding his palm up John’s neck, tugging him forwards until Harry can brush the tip of his nose against John’s cheek. 

“You say that,” John gulps. “You say that, but look what you’re doing.”

“What,” the word is barely more than a breath. “This?” he ghosts his lips along John’s jaw and feels John’s hands move to clench at his hips. “But you like it John, you really do.”

Harry risks it, he takes the mad leap because he knows, he  _ knows _ how John feels about him. They’re infatuated with each other and there’s no amount of therapy, or medication, or sound reason that can keep them apart. 

He opens his mouth and takes John’s lips in a filthy kiss. He fucks John’s mouth with his tongue, moaning obscenely. It’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted and he’s already so hard from the tease of pulling John closer and closer, that he can barely think properly. 

Harry feels a surge of shock go through him when John responds, letting Harry kiss him and gasping high-pitched in the back of his throat. The shock is quickly replaced by utter delight, and Harry reaches up to grab  John’s hair with both hands. The stitches protest and it hurts just a little, but he doesn’t care, he’s desperate to touch, he just wants to touch,  _ God, _ he wants to touch. He pulls back a bit, gentles the kiss, presses his lips softly against the bow of John’s mouth, then the corners. He rubs their noses together, like when they were children, eskimo kisses in the grass, fields and fields of grass. Limbs wrapped all around each other as they wrestled and played. They’d held each other then, without fear or shame. The perfect pictures of innocence.

Harry’s never been ashamed of his attraction to his brother. It’s always been a part of him and it seemed only natural. In fact, it seemed to be the only thing in the world that came so naturally to him. He’s aware that speaks to the kind of twisted he is, the kind of twisted he has always been. But it doesn’t matter. It never has.

John is shuddering beneath his fingers, shaking apart under Harry’s attention, and Harry can feel tears leaking from the corners of his own eyes. He can’t help it. It’s overwhelming. John’s mouth, his tongue, his touch, all of it, it’s like dying inside a perfect storm. He wraps an arm around John’s back and his legs full around John’s waist. Pulls him in, tight up against him, and John’s stomach presses up against his erection. 

“Fuck,” Harry gasps. “Oh, fuck.”

John pulls back and sucks in a desperate lungful of air. “God,” he says. And Harry feels a thrill run through his body when John thrusts first. Eyes deep and intense. John shifts them both, lines them up so that Harry can feel the bulge of John’s erection pressing against his and his nostrils flare. He reaches out and grips the nape of John’s neck and rocks his hips.

“John,” He says. And it’s reverent. It’s practically holy. “More.”

“Yeah,” John leans in, and down to bite at Harry’s collar bone, then gives a slow roll of his body, dragging his clothed cock against Harry’s. Harry meets the thrust and cries out.

He pulls at John’s neck, urging him closer so that he can rub the stubble of his jaw against the smooth skin of John’s freshly shaved cheek. John’s mouth falls open, hot breath against Harry’s ear as they keep thrusting. 

And then Harry’s laughing. He’s laughing because he’s got what he’s wanted, everything he’s wanted, and he’s reduced his sanctimonious puritan of a brother to humping him up against the kitchen counter. It’s spectacular. He reaches his hand down and presses his palm against John’s cock through the fabric, as John continues rocking his hips. Harry adores the feel of it, like steel, so hard in his hand. He thinks he might pass out. Honest to God, he’s trembling. 

“Harry,” His gaze snaps up to meet John’s who’s looking at him with absolutely desperate eyes. “Harry, please.”

“What?” He whispers, giving a hard rub and John breathes in a soft fierce breath. “What do you need?”

“Take your cock out. I wanna-” John swallows. “I wanna see it. ” 

Harry’s jaw drops at the request. It’s the last thing he’d think John might ask of him, and it’s so unbelievably dirty. The words zing through him, going straight to his balls, and he scrambles to unbutton his jeans. He pulls down the zipper and shoves at his boxers until the head of his cock, pulsing hot and red, is poking out over the fabric.

He moves to do the same to John, yanks at John’s belt and flings it against a wall just to hear the clatter of it falling to the floor. He slows down at John’s zip, makes it torturous and slow as he stares at John’s desperate face. But the second he’s pushed John’s suit pants down his thighs, he abandons the slow pace and shoves his hand inside John’s boxers. Pulls his cock out on a groan, hungry for it. It’s smooth and hot beneath his fingers, and he gives a slow teasing stroke all the way up, pulling it further through the slit of John’s boxers in the process.

He flicks his gaze up at John, sees him looking down, eyes wide with shock and desire. Harry smirks and grabs for John’s hand, takes John’s thumb and swipes it through the precome leaking from the head of his cock. Then he lifts the digit to his mouth and sucks at it obscenely.

It’s a naughty bit of payback for the whole pasta sauce incident earlier. He grins wickedly when he feels John’s knees buckle, but Harry shoves under his arse with his legs and John rights himself. He takes both of their palms and places them just over the reddened heads of their cocks, a steady stream of precome slicking their grip. John starts thrusting again, through the tunnel of their fingers and it’s agony it’s so good.

Harry watches John’s face, he seems unable to tear his gaze away from where they’re joined together, unable to stop his gasps at the sight of their cocks touching. They’re both close, too close. 

“Yeah John,” Harry whispers. Biting his earlobe. “God, do it. Please. Let me see you come.”

And John does, he comes gushing over their hands, gasping, “Ah, ah, Harry. Fuck! Unh.” 

Harry follows at the sound of his name, gives a broken shout, but keeps thrusting, pushing forwards, shoves the back of John’s head down to keep him looking as Harry keeps coming. He makes John watch as Harry milks the last spurts from both of them, dripping over their fingers, touching until it hurts. They fall against each other, wrung out and utterly drained. 

Much to Harry’s chagrin, they’re afforded very few moments of afterglow before John is ripping himself away from the embrace. Standing apart from Harry and swaying on his feet.

He looks gorgeous, hair a wreck and boxers low on his hips. His soft cock covered in come and hanging out. A twinge of aftershock goes through Harry at the sight and he squeezes his thighs together, letting out a last little gasp. John clutches at his trousers, tries to pull them up but is mostly unsuccessful, the sticky tangle of fabric and flesh more of a mess than he currently has the brain cells to work out. 

Harry reaches across the counter for the tea towel and starts wiping at his own cock and the stain on his shirt. He realizes he’s got come all over the bandage on his hand, despite it not being the one he’d used to jerk them both off, and he quirks the corner of his mouth, holding his hand up for John to see. “Need another one of those it looks like.” 

John stares at him, looks at the bandage, then down at himself. He raises his head back to Harry and Harry feels a tremor of concern wash over him. John looks terrified. He looks absolutely terrified. 

Harry throws the towel down, smiles softly at his brother, tries to lighten the mood and salvage the whole situation. Because John doesn’t handle fear well, not when it’s so personal. 

“John,” He whispers. “It’s alright. Really, it is. Everything’s still normal. It was good yeah? It was the natural progression of what we mean to ea-.”

“Natural progression!” The panicked shout actually startles Harry and he jumps a bit. “We’re brothers you lunatic, this isn’t natural anything! Oh God, oh my God.” He’s scrubbing his fingers through his already wrecked hair, a habit of his when he flies into one of his neurotic little breakdowns. “I can’t believe I let you do this. I can’t believe-

“Let me?” Harry’s down from the counter and in John’s face in three seconds flat. “I didn’t molest you. You were an eager and willing participant John Smith, don’t you dare try to shove off the blame on me.” 

“I’m-I’m- I just-” He’s back to trying to pull up his trousers, then starts pacing awkwardly. He can’t even look at Harry anymore. “I’m...I’m going to clean myself up. I’m just. I’m going. Please, be asleep when I get back. I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to look at you. I don’t even really want you here.”

It kills him. Really, it does. Harry’s sure he’s just been murdered. That John’s just put his whole fist through Harry’s chest, pulled out his heart, and squeezed the life from it right in front of him. Harry stands agape, frozen in anguish as John keeps on. 

“God Harry, what have you done? I’d thought you’d moved past this. Really, I had. I never would have brought you here if I hadn’t thought-” He breaks off, stopping himself and pressing a hand over his eyes. “Oh God.”

Harry really can’t believe what he’s hearing, but he’s definitely hearing it. John keeps claiming that Harry’s the delusional one, but there John stands, lecturing Harry about the transgressions of incest, when John had been drooling for it just as much as he had. Truly, Harry had made note of the fact, Harry had  _ gotten off _ on the fact. 

He opens his mouth, tries to say something biting and cruel, but ends up only able too let out an incoherent cry of utter rage. He clenches his fists, then raises one and punches John square in the face. Twice.

John puts his hands up to shield himself but he’s unsuccessful, the blows land soundly and painfully. Harry stands there, fist raised once more, but this time he lets John intercept it with a gentle grip.

“Don’t.” John whispers. “Just- I get it. I do.” Then he turns on his heel and retreats to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. 

Harry has an idle thought that the bathroom really is the only good place in the flat to huff off too, and that’s just shit really. Then he turns and throws his last punch through the drywall, crumbles to his knees with his head in his hands, and fails to stop the torrent of tears from overwhelming him.


	5. Hangover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry gets a babysitter because John's run off for the day to get "space." Probably, most definitely, because he's a coward. But Martha's is not! And she jumps to John's rescue, as always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, I state that Harry believes that he's never tried to hurt Martha because she poses no threat to his relationship with John, but part of the reason is also because the TARDIS knew that Martha was invaluable to protecting the two Time Lords, and wrote it into Harry's personality that he was never ever to harm Martha Jones.   
> (I might make some edits later but I'm tired and just wanted to get it posted for now.)

The sun is streaming in through the windows when Harry struggles to blink his eyes open the next morning. His face is mashed against his pillow, skin feeling tight and bruised, and there’s a dried ring of salt clinging to his lashes and the corners of his eyes. He grimaces, it’s been ages since he’s cried so hard that his tears have dried, sticky and uncomfortable, to his face. He reaches up and wipes the crust of dried tears, and sleep, away with his palms. Then turns his head further into the pillow as the light of the sun presses in on him.

The brightness is an obnoxious contrast to the way Harry’s world feels as of it’s crushed in on itself, and he sucks in a sharp breath as images of the night before, good and bad, race across his mind. It’s a rush, an onslaught really, of painful flashbacks and the recollections are so vivid that he feels a wave of nausea sweep over him. For a brief moment, Harry is certain that he’s about to throw up and he tilts his head over the edge of the sofa to do it over the floor. After a couple of seconds of nothing happening, he reaches down to place his hand on the floor in an effort to ground himself. He’s unsuccessful however, because when he looks down at his fingers, the world sort of spins beneath him. He groans. He’s having what John had once affectionately termed a “rage hangover.” 

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck.”

He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want the world to keep turning, or time to keep moving. He wants everything to stop right now, just the way it is, so he that he can wallow in his own misery without the pressure and fear of life closing in around him. He thinks of John and his breath catches in his chest, shallow and panicked, thinks he might even have started shaking a little. 

Is his brother here? What are they supposed to do? What’s  _ Harry _ supposed to do? Surely, there’s no doubt that John plans to send him back now. Will John make Harry beg? What the hell is he gonna do, oh God, what the hell is gonna-

“Right. I see you over there, moping about. You’re awake then. Get up and come eat this.” 

It’s a girl’s voice, a women’s to be more precise. And it’s familiar. Very much so. He’s startled at the strange feeling of relief that washes through him when he places it. If Martha’s here it means that John is not, and he doesn’t have to face his brother yet, but it also means that Harry’s not been left alone with the savage ruminations in his mind. He crawls awkwardly off the couch until he’s seated on the floor, leaning back against the cushions with his knees up and arms flopped on top of them. He’s in only his pants but he’s not one to care. He stares blearily over at Martha. 

“Miss Jones,” He says, his voice sounds hoarse and clogged. He coughs into his fist before he trying again. “ ‘Suppose he asked you to babysit?”

Harry doesn’t feel the need to antagonize Martha, mostly because she poses no threat to him, she never has. John’s blatantly stated that he’s not romantically interested in her, (probably because she’s not blonde) and even though Harry’s been suspicious of Martha’s own feelings for John before, she’s married now, and her devotion to Harry’s brother is kept respectfully platonic. She also doesn’t vie for John’s attention when he’s home, in fact, she keeps a respectful distance from the both of them, only showing her face when John is in desperate need of her help. Harry is certain that they must spend some time together outside of  what John calls their “family emergencies,” if only to keep up the closeness of their friendship, but if so, neither of them speak about it. In light of all of this, and of all the other things that Martha Jones has done for the both of them in the past three years, Harry has made a very conscious decision to keep her off of his shitlist. 

“Heard about your roaring temper tantrum yesterday.” She says, chewing on a ginger biscuit. She looks bored and more than a little exasperated. “Thought you were supposed to be getting over those yeah?”

Harry gives a slow shrug, staring off into the distance with a dead look. Martha rolls her eyes and pulls out of one the seldom used bar stools. She sits down and continues nibbling at her biscuit, waiting for patiently for Harry to give. He doesn’t, not quite. 

After a few minutes, he pulls himself off the floor with stiff limbs and walks to the kitchen. She’d mentioned something about food and after a few brief seconds of reorienting himself to...well, existence, he notices a plate set out for him on the counter. It’s a couple of toaster waffles and some fruit, nothing much really, but it’s a surprisingly nice gesture.

He picks it up and moves to sit next to Martha. He’s struck with a brief but terrible urge to tell Martha that he’d fucked their precious Dr. Smith last night, made him come over Harry’s fist, just over there, where she’d been leaning her hip up against the counter minutes earlier, but he lets the wave wash through him. A conscious decision. For Martha he’s almost always willing to make a conscious decision. He wonders if she knows that she’s really very special in that respect, even compared to John, around whom he’s rarely able to make a conscious anything so swept up in his chaotic and complicated emotions for the other man.

So instead of antagonizing her, he says, “Thanks,” and starts eating.

Martha gives a biting little laugh and waves him off. “Wasn’t me. I don’t like you that much. And you can be certain I wouldn’t be rewarding a shit show like last night by making your breakfast the next morning.” She jerks her thumb at the microwave. “He left you a cup of tea in there if you want.”

Harry’s a little startled by this information. Definitely a little touched, and almost certainly disgusted by it. He can’t believe John, after everything they’d said and done to each other last  night, he can’t believe John is such a-a-a- Harry’s inclined to say manipulative bastard, with all of this hot/cold nonsense he’s got going, but he knows John’s not doing it on purpose. John is a good man, Harry’s the psychopath. Nonetheless, the gentle gesture stirs up equal measures of affection and loathing in him. 

He chews on a waffle and then sticks out his tongue, letting the mashed up food fall off his tongue. He pokes at it, then eats it again. He sees Martha staring at him in disgust out of the corner of his eye.

“God you’re a real freak, you know?” She says, face twisted in disgust.

“Yeah,” he says, mouth full.

Harry quickly debates with himself about the merits of making himself a fresh cup of tea, instead of reheating the cup that has inevitably gone a bit stale in the microwave. But he quickly decides there’s no point, John had made it for him, of course he’ll drink it. He’ll be angry about it, but he’ll drink it. And he’ll guzzle it down like it’s John’s lifeblood, and not a stupid cup of tea. He pops over to the microwave and opens the door, decides he doesn’t even want to re-heat it and just pulls the mug out, gulping it down cold with a waspish look on his face. 

“You aren’t hurting anyone but yourself,” Martha muses. “Stomping about the place trying to violate his kindnesses.”

She’s right, it’s not nearly as fun being a little bugger when John’s not here to see him do it. He throws the cup into the sink, literally, just tosses it without looking and here’s it clack loudly against the metal.

“Oi!” Martha snaps, staring him down. “Stop that. You’re a what? A  thirty six year old man? Act like it!”

He smirks childishly at her, “Can’t.” He drawls. “Haven’t you heard? I’m mentally ill.”

Martha’s face changes from her “I’m a firm mum” look, to ice cold. Cold enough to give Harry frostbite. 

“I’m not like him,” she says. Her voice is quiet and serious. Right intimidating, and even though Harry’s not frightened or cowed, he  _ is _ intrigued. 

“I know you can’t be fixed. Something is very seriously wrong with you Harry, and John has spent too much time trying fix it. Really  _ fix _ it. He wants to right you, make you good and-and...noble. All the things you’re completely incapable of being, but I’ve seen him Harry, the things he’s done for you-”

Harry gives a louds snort, “Right, yeah. He’s done a whole lot, letting me waste away in the hospital while he goes off on his big adventures.” Harry adds jazz hands to the last bit. For flare, obviously.

“Listen, he doesn’t tell you everything does he?” She looks at him, imploring. “Does he?”

Harry shakes his head, nostrils flaring. He doesn’t tolerate being called out very well, but she’s not wrong. Martha rarely ever is.

“He can’t, can he? But do you know what? I know an awful lot about the both of you, way more that I ever wanted to know. And I only expect it’ll be getting worse and worse the longer the three of us carry on like this.”

“What?” Harry asks. His blood goes a little cold as a terrible thought crosses his mind. If Martha knows...he’s in for it. He’s really in for it if John’s gone and told Martha about their fuck. “What are you on about, seriously? Did he tell you?”

“All I’m saying is that I’m smarter than you. Than  _ both _ of you. John may be a clever boy, but he’s a daft sod when it comes down to what really matters. He’s good at fixing loads of other stuff, but people themselves? No way. He can barely keep himself from breaking most of us, much less do any fixing. He may put on a great show, but really he’s just absolutely clueless when it comes to handling people’s hearts, and yours is no exception. He  _ can’t  _ fix you.”

Harry experiences exactly five seconds of a kindred connection to Martha Jones, she’s just cut to the core of most of Harry’s feelings about John and he’s thankful, honest to God, thankful, that he’s not the only one who sees it. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I know.”

Martha seems to realize that he’s not fucking around with her, and they both take a moment to recognize that a great understanding has passed between them. Then her gaze lightens.

“Yeah, but your like,” she says as she jumps down from her stool. She flicks her eyes up to the ceiling with exaggerated annoyance, “One thousand times worse than he is when it comes to interpersonal skills.”

Harry chews at the edge of one of his toaster waffles with slow deliberation. “It seems to me, Miss Jones,” He muses, as he watches Martha start opening cupboards in a hunt for more biscuits. “That you’re going out of your way to...protect me.” He hisses in a breath. “Oh but that can’t be, can it?”

“That wasn’t protection, it was a warning.”

“No but see, you just told me loads of stuff you shouldn't have. Stuff John would hate for you to tell me. You weren’t just warning me off being a little git, you were actually warning me about John’s flaws? When does anyone but me  _ ever _ talk about our dear doctor’s flaws? You were.” He points his fork at her with a sly smile. “You were protecting me.”

“For John’s sake,” she snaps. “Not yours. Never yours. If I can protect you, then I can protect him.”

“What like...protect us from each other?”

She turns and looks him dead in the eyes. “Yes, exactly that.”

Harry experiences a flare of irritation at this. Her ego was nearly as bad as John’s. What is it with doctors and their pitiful little savior complexes? 

“And what gives you the right to do that?” He asks sharply. “Who are you to us that that’s your job?”

“You’d be surprised. I do my best job playing protector. I’m really very good at it. There’s more than just you two at stake here. Now that you’re actually together, proper together again, if things get out of hand then you could do more that just hurt each other, you could hurt other people too.” She pulls the biscuit tin out of the cabinet and stares down at it distantly, like she’s looking at something else. Something outside of the room, outside of this life. Then she snaps out of it and pops the lid open. 

“Like last night, with Sofie.” She says, as she rifles through the jar. “John’s not strong enough to stop you, but I am. ” She points at him with her ginger biscuit. “Always. Don’t you ever forget that Harold Saxon.”

Harry opens his mouth to snap at her again, ask her just how it is precisely, that she  _ stopped  _ him last night, but she interrupts him, not finished. “And I’m John’s best friend. His only friend. And if you love him, if you really, really, love him, like I think you do, then you’ll stay okay with that, you’ll stay okay with me, and everything I am to the both of you. John needs me. You both do. Get used to it.”

Martha makes it clear that that’s the end of it, and he doesn’t press. He finds he’s had enough of the conversation himself, and has been left feeling that most of it went over his head, didn’t quite make complete sense. At the same time everything she’d said had rung true, and something inside of him had understood and accepted it all with complete clarity. He’s left feeling the same way he always has. Martha Jones is off limits. She is not to be crossed.

They don’t speak for a while. Martha lets Harry pick at the fruit on the plate, and Harry lets her keep a close eye on him. Occasionally, she looks down at her phone to send off a text to someone. Harry assumes it’s John, but it could also be her husband Tom. When he’s done with his food, he carries his plate to the sink and scrubs all the leftover bits of food off of it. He washes out the mug he threw earlier as well, a gesture of good faith.

“So what’s the plan?” He finally asks, as he leans up against the counter. “You’re talking to him right? What happens now?”

“Well,” she looks down at her phone. “He’s not sending you back, not yet. Even though he really probably should.”

“I thought you wanted him with me?” Harry says. 

She’s always said so. She was furious when John left him the first time. Furious when John had begged her to come with him. He’d run off, and Martha had been left as Harry’s keeper. Sort of. She’d come to see him in the hospital more than John ever had. She didn’t like it, and she wasn’t afraid to tell him so, but she did. For John’s sake, she always said. He’s starting to wonder if that wasn’t the full truth.

“I want him here in London,” She replies. “Where he can be near you, keep his eye on you, so I don’t have to. I don’t necessarily want him to be holed up in this place with you driving him round the bend.”

Harry grimaces and crosses his arms, going all pouty again. God, the rollercoaster he’s been on the past two days. He’s not sure he’d mind just holing himself up in the wardrobe for ten hours and refusing to come out. 

But Martha takes a little step towards him, her voice softer when she says, “I don’t want him to abandon you,” she’s trying to meet his eyes now. He flicks his gaze at the ceiling. “But I don’t want you to hurt him either. Like I said. You think that’s fair yeah?”

Harry takes a moment to consider this and then gives a short nod. He walks over to the wardrobe he’s still considering hiding in, and pulls it open. John’s made space for his stuff, not that it was full to bursting before. He takes out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, yanking the t-shirt over his bare chest, and pulling the jeans up over his pants. When he’s done Martha’s looking down at her phone again.

“He’ll be home in a bit he says. I’ve gotta go pretty soon though. You might be on your own for an hour or two.”

Harry looks at her with surprise written all over his face, “And he’s okay with that?  _ You’re _ okay with that?”

Martha flips her phone closed, “We’re not your masters Harry,” she says, giving him a sidelong glance. “But think of it as a gesture of good faith.”

Harry considers this. “Can I see your phone for a second Martha?” He asks.

She looks at him with a raised eyebrow, “Why?”

He rolls his eyes, “I’m not going to turn it into a shiv and run screaming through the streets, I wanna tell him something.”

“I don’t know how your mind works! You cut your hand open in front of John’s girlfriend last night, forgive me for being hesitant. Here.” She hands him the phone, the thread with her text messages to John already open. He scrolls up and down, reading through the conversation. 

Martha rolls her eyes. “Again, you’re only hurting yourself. Not much there anyway. Most of our gossip about you took place over a call this morning.”

She’s right, John doesn’t say much other than he needs some space, but he’ll be back before tea, and that he’s pretty sure he’s not sending Harry back to hospital. There’s a very pointed single word text from him that makes Harry swallow though. 

_ YET. _

Which means there’s an element of threat to it, he hopes John doesn’t start hanging it over his head, because that would be a spectacularly shit idea. He scrolls back to the bottom and types in three words. They could get him into trouble. John could read them and then change his mind about keeping him immediately, especially with the big,  _ YET _ , in the mix. But John deserves to know, and he if he needs time to absorb the fact, Harry’s being courteous enough to tell him while he’s out getting “space.”

_ I won’t stop. _

He chews on his thumb, decides that’s all there is, and hit send. He hands the phone back to Martha. It’s not secret, so he’s not concerned about her seeing what it says, plus it’s her mobile so he couldn’t stop her if he tried. But he is, rather pleasantly, surprised to see a deep shadow cross her face when she reads it. She blanches at the words, and grips the bar stool with white knuckles. She’s seems genuinely frightened, after her big speech about playing their hero, here she is reduced to terror from just three words on a screen. She can’t possibly understand the full complexities of the meaning behind the words, but still, Harry finds this reaction to be utterly fascinating. He laughs, decides he can’t resist, and starts stepping towards her slowly.

“Alright there?” He asks. 

She looks up at him, smile tense, “Fine, yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,”  He says, still moving forwards. “You look a little-” He grins at her. “Wobbly. Was it something I said?”

“That’s enough of that Mister,” She points the phone at him and grabs her purse off the coffee table. He stops, putting his palms up. 

“What?” He’s the picture of perfect innocence. 

“Oh no you don’t. You were being creepy, literally you were creeping up on me. I won’t have you messing with my head. Not here, not now.” She seems to have regained her composure and swings her purse onto her shoulder, making towards the door. “FYI, he called me over because he wanted someone here when you woke up. He was worried. Are you fine to be on your own now?”

Harry knows what that means. It means John was scared that he might hurt himself. Again. Harry’s really gotta come up with a new thing, but it’s just so fucking  _ effective _ with the other man. He nods in assent and she turns to leave, but as she’s stepping over the threshold, he rolls his eyes.

“Hold on,” He calls. “Forgetting something?”

She looks over her shoulder, “No?” 

“The text, idiot. I don’t have a mobile. Did he say anything?”

Martha pauses, seeming very hesitant to check for a response, but eventually flips the phone back open to look. Her whole body deflates when she reads John’s reply, and she shakes her head.

“You’re both hopeless,” she whispers, but she hands the mobile to him. “See for yourself.”

John’s reply is even shorter than Harry’s original message, his brother had clearly known it hadn’t come from Martha, and that sends a little thrill coursing through him.

_ I know. _

It says, and Harry stares at it. He stares, and stares. No threats, no conditions. Just a simple, _ I know _ . He can’t help himself, he breaks out into a grin that threatens to split his face, and shoves the phone back into Martha’s hands. He jumps back and gives a great whoop of joy. 

“I win!” He shouts, and barely even registers the slam of the flat door.

 


End file.
